UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


it 


s  K&*WGS 

^•<-^    vH,  'i,~r\ 


'MES    AMOURS:' 


(poems:  (pct06ton<tfe  anb 


WRITTEN  TO  ME  BY  PEOPLE  CELEBRATED  AND  OBSCURE 

AND 
MY  ANSWERS   TO   SOME    OF  THEM 


WITH  AN   INTRODUCTION  AND    NOTES. 


SELINA  DOLARO 


L?A  mour  .est  enfant  de  BohSme  ! 

— CARMEN. 


CHICAGO  AND  NEW  YORK 

BELFORD,   CLARKE    &    COMPANY 

1888 


COPYRIGHT,  1887,  BY 
BELFORD,  CLARKE  &  COMPANY 


PREFATORY    EXCURSION    BY    WAY    OF    EX 
PLANATION   AND  APOLOGY. 


DURING  the  happy  years  that  I  acted  as  the  servant  of  a 

public  that  appreciated  my  efforts  in  that  direction,  I  was  a 

continual  target  for  the  metrical  effusions  of  people — known 

and  unknown — who  sought  by  this  means  to  make  the    ac- 

«      quaintance  of  that  mysterious  thing,    "a  popular  actress;" 

Q      and  I  frequently  preserved  them.     On  receipt  of  these  verses 

J|      I  often  felt  myself  in  a  position  to  criticise  them,  and  even 

Jf      to  correct  their  errors  of  orthography,  syntax,  metre,  rhyme, 

and  rhythm  ;  and,  as  a  not  unnatural  result,  I  woke  one  day 

CM     like  Hafiz,  the  Persian  dreamer,  "stringing  pearls  of  verse." 

£2     The  rhymes  I  received  and   the  rhymes   I  wrote,  I  have  at 

o      length  determined  to  collect  and  publish. 

It  may  be  that  I  render  myself  liable  to  criticism  in  ac- 

^     ceding  to  the  requests  which  have  been  made  me  to  publish 

these  verses  and  sketches — caricatures  literary  and  artistic,  I 

Jj:     might  say — that  have  been  sent  me  from  time  to  time.     But 

ac     as  circumstances  are  always  allowed  to  alter  cases,  I  claim 

jjj      "circumstances"  (in  fact,  with  a  certain  political  faction,  I 

00      "claim  everything").     Few  persons    are    privileged   to  read 

their  virtues,  abilities,  and  attractions  extolled  in  ante-  [by 

way   of   post-]    mortem    notices,    written    in    anticipation    of 

immediate    dissolution.    Such    was   my   fate.     For    the    first 

time  I  learned  that  I  was  clever  and  beautiful.     Dangerous 

things  to  tell  a  woman  !     True,  I  was  expected  to  take  my 

leave  of  this  mundane  sphere  respectably,  pathetically,  and, 


402G3G 


6  PREFATORY  EXCURSION. 

above  all,  immediately.  It  really  was  my  duty  to  have  done 
so.  I  must  admit  a  want  of  tact  on  this  occasion.  I  have,  as 
a  rule,  a  keen  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things,  but  the  fitness  of 
this  particular  thing  was  altogether  too  fit  ;  and,  in  spite  of 
the  very  pretty  funeral  mine  would  have  been  (for  it  was  not 
long  since  I  had  appeared  on  the  stage  looking  very  young 
and — etc.,  as  above),  I  behaved  most  inconsiderately,  and  con 
tinued  to  live.  Henceforth  I  became  a  curiosity,  and  poor 
mankind  became  my  victim.  There  is  a  charming  uncertainty 
as  to  when  my  picturesque  end  will  come — a  delightful  ex 
pectancy  of  my  final  coup  de  theatre — that  affords  me  immu 
nity  from  all  rules.  These  are  my  "circumstances."  So  much 
by  way  of  explanation. 

I  have  always  been  a  trial  to  my  friends,  but  this  last  de 
parture  of  mine  is,  I  am  bound  to  admit,  cruel.  That  I  should 
write  a  play  was  bad,  very  bad — my  only  excuse  was  that  I 
knew  something  of  the  stage  ;  but  to  scatter  doggerel  in  my 
wake  (not  in  the  Hibernian  sense)  is  still  worse.  I  can  offer 
no  valid  reason  for,  no  palliation  of,  my  offence.  However,  the 
sooner  I  am  cured  the  better ;  and  what  better  cure  could  I 
find  than  the  gentle  (I  am  sure)  but  determined  "  sitting-on  " 
I  shall  get  for  my  temerity  ?  From  my  poor  friends  I  ask  for 
giveness.  To  my  enemies  I  dedicate  that  portion  of  this 
volume  which  comes  from  my  pen,  as  a  sufficient  retribution. 

In  the  notes  I  have  endeavoured  to  record  truthfully  my 
impressions  on  receiving  said  verses,  and  the  feelings  that 
prompted  me  to  retort  in  doggerel  of  my  own.  It  is  un 
necessary  for  me  to  say  that  I  think  the  former  are  good  and 
the  latter  bad.  Anyone  can  say  that. 

SELINA  D.OLARO. 

NEW  YORK,  November,  1887. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


PREFATORY  EXCURSION  BY  WAY  OF  EXPLANATION  AND  APOLOGY,    .        5 
CONTENTS,  .  .  - 


OTHER   PEOPLE'S. 

MA  BELLE  AMIE,             .                                                 .  u 

A  QUESTION,        ......  13 

A  MEMORY,          ....  16 

YOUR  BIRTHDAY,              .....  18 

YOUR  BIRTHDAY,              ...  20 

To  MAHMOURE  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY,       •  .22 

ON  THE  SUN-BLACKENED  PROOF  OF  A  PHOTO,             .            .  .24 

A  PHOTOGRAPH,  ......  27 

LET  IT  BE  SOON,             ......  29 

FROM  MY  FLY-LEAVES,   ......  ,o 

A  QUESTION,        .....  -2 

A  DREAM-WISH,               .  _. 

•  O  T 

THE  IMAGINING  OF  A  FEVERED  IMAGINATION,             .  -?e 

THE  ANSWER,      ......  -j7 


8  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


A  LEGEND  OF  KING  WILLIAM  STREET,             .           .           ,  -39 

LONELY,  BUT  NOT  ALONE,          .           .           .           .           •  -41 

RETROSPECTIVE,   .            .           .           .           ...           .  -43 

LES  ACCROCHE-CCEURS,    .           .           *'._.''.  .46 

REVERIE,  ........  48 

AFTER,       .            .            .            .            .            •            •  •       51 

EROTIC  CHESTNUTS,        .           .           .           .         .  .           .  -53 

MY  OWN. 

A  CONSOLATION,              .           .           .                       .  -57 

A  WORD  OF  INTERPOLATED  APOLOGY,  ...           .           .  -59 

MY  QUESTION,      .           ...           .           .           .          , .  .60 

His  CONFESSOR,    .            .                        .            .            •            .  .61 

A  FRAGMENT,       .           .           .           .           .           .           .  .62 

THE  TRAGEDY,     .           .           .           .           .                       .  .64 

To  UNACTED  AUTHORS,  .            .           .           .           .           .  -67 

D.  C.,                    .           .           .                       *           .           .  -69 

POSTSCRIPT,          .           .           .           .            .           .           .  72 

Au  REVOIR,          ........      73 


OTHER  PEOPLE'S. 


MA   BELLE   AMIE. 

NOTE. — One  of  the  few  genuine  poems  that  have  been  sent  me,  expressing,  as  it  does,  the 
feelings  of  a  thoroughly  lazy  adorer.  He  resembles  the  degenerate  ones  in  "  The  Water 
Babies,"  who  refused  to  take  the  trouble  to  chase  the  roasted  pig,  or  climb  the  trees  whereon 
the  flap-doodle  grew. 

I. 

I  do  not  love  you  in  the  least, 

This  is  a  poetical  form  of  the  words  "  without  prejudice,"  that  a  lawyer 
puts  on  his  letters  when  he's  afraid  to  compromise  himself. 

Ma  belle  amie  ; 
That  sentiment  long  since  has  ceased, 

Ma  belle  amie. 

And  yet  there's  something  near  my  heart 
That  hurts  a  little  when  we  part  ; 
'Tis  sweet,  and  yet  it  leaves  a  smart, 

Simile  :  The  Christmas  cracker. 

Ma  belle  amie! 


II. 
Your  cheek  is  soft,  and  fair  to  see, 

My  sentiments  exactly,  on  reading  the  first  verse. 

Ma  belle  amie  ; 
Your  lips  are  sweet — too  sweet  for  me, 

Ma  belle  amie. 

I  long,  and  yet  I  fear  to  press 
That  bosom  in  my  wild  caress, 
Lest  I  should  love  you  more — or  less, 

This  circumspection  is  the  philosophy  of  bards. 

Ma  belle  amie  ! 


12  "MES  AMOURS." 


III. 

Since  Friendship  seems  a  trifle  cold, 

This  should  have  been  headed  "The  Lay  of  the  Lazy  Lover.' 

Ma  belle  amie  ; 
And  Love,  you  say,  would  be  too  bold, 

Ma  belle  amie  ; 

We'll  split  the  difference  'twixt  the  two, 
And  feel — just  as  the  Angels  do  : 
That  is — I  hardly  know — do  you  ? 

Ma  belle  amie  ! 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — Very  charming  and  non-committal,  like  the  trousers  purchased  by  a  frugal 
mamma  for  her  eldest  boy,  with  a  view  to  the  "wrong  side"  for  purposes  of  turning  and  alter 
ing  for  the  youngest. 


A  QUESTION. 


NOTE. — A  poem  written  by  a  bard  who  caused  himself  to  be  presented  to  me  after  the  per 
formance  of  "  La  Perichole."  One  of  the  few  copies  of  verse  that  show  internal  evidence  of 
having  been  written  for  me  alone.  A  very  insidious  form  of  poem,  as  it  leaves  one  complete 
liberty  of  action — a  liberty  that  one  is  bound  to  misuse. 


WAS  it  a  chance — or  Providence — or  what 

That,  on  that  fateful  night, 
Led  my  vague  footsteps  to  the  magic  spot 

That  yen  filled  in  with  light? 

f  Why  do  bards  ask  these  sort  of  questions  ?     Is  it  because  they  scan 

easily,  or  is  it  the  natural  and  irresponsible  curiosity  of  bards  ? 


Was  it  a  chance — mere  waywardness  of  yours — 

That  caused  your  smile  to  say 
That  I  was  different  to  the  gaping  boors 

Was  there  ever  a  man  who  didn't  think  this  ? 

Who  came  to  see  your  play  ? 

Good  !  This  assumption  is  good,  because  by  giving  one  the  chance 
to  tell  the  bard  he  is  mistaken,  he  prompts  one  to  say  he  is  right, 
and  thank  him  for  saving  one  trouble. 


At  least  i  read  that  message  in  them  then  ; 

And,  though  I  laughed  to  think 
That  I — the  worst-used,  bitterest  of  men — 

Should  find  another  brink 


i4  "MES  AMOURS." 

Of  love  to  tremble  on,  yet  in  my  heart 

I  knew  the  laugh  untrue  : 
I  saw  the  actress  play  the  soulless  part, 

But  through  her  I  sxw  you. 


Very  delicate  and  insinuating,  and  all  the  more  charming  as  I  don't 
think  any  other  woman  ever  had  this  particular  poem. 


Behind  La  Perichole  I  knew  there  lived 

A  woman — "  nobly  planned  "  — 
Oh  !  that  grand  night,  when  I  so  well  contrived 

To  touch  your  little  hand  ! 

It  mas  clever.  If  I  remember  rightly,  he  was  presented,  [I  think,  out 
of  spite,]  by  a  man  who  hated  him.  A  grand  "send-off"  fora 
man,  if  he  only  knew. 


And  you  ?     Were  "  profits  "  in  your  mind  just  then, 

Or  was  it  but — caprice  ? 
Was  I  an  unit  'mongst  the  amorous  men 

Who  came  to  see  your  piece  ? 

The  bard  is  mistaken.     I  had  no  financial  interest  in  the  play. 


Or  was  it  different?     Before  'tis  o'er — 
Our  little  dream  of  love — 

"  Dream"  is  good,  but  "  my  "  would  have  been  better. 

And  I  must  pass  outside  your  jealous  door, 
And  know  you  sit  above, 

Bless  me  !  does  he  mean  when  I  am  dead  ? 


Forgetting  me — on  purpose — putting  me 
Out  of  your  life  as  vain — 

Apparently  not.     Thanks  ! 


A  QUESTION.  15 

Tell  me  the  truth,  my  Dolly — can  it  be 
That  I  was  loved  again  ? 

What  a  question  !     And  from  a  man,  too,  who  knew  his  Balzac  by 
heart  ! 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — Prettily  composed,  but  rather  an  unwise  poem  to  send.  Not  suffi 
ciently  proprietary  and  deprecating— two  qualities  that  ought  always  to  "jump  to  the  eyes" 
concomitantly  in  an  amateur  love-effusion.  Still,  as  I  said  in  the  NOTE,  this  gives  one  a  dan 
gerous  latitude  of  action. 


A   MEMORY. 

[AFTER  DOLLY  HAD  CALLED  UPON  ME.] 


NOTE. — A  clever  poem,  because  it  unites  within  itself  three  magic  qualities  :  First,  it  is  of  the 
adaptable  kind,  and  may  be  sent  to  anyone  on  account  of  its  impersonality  ;  second,  it  expresses 
a  state  of  rabid  adoration  without  calling  for  any  responsive  effort  on  one's  own  part ;  and  third, 
it  is  a  purely  ex-parte  statement  (to  speak  legally),  and  does  not  pretend  to  assume  that  one 
in  any  way  reciprocates  the  delirium  one  has  produced. 


A  PERFUMED  delirium  steals  thro'  the  air, 

As  I  sit  here  alone,  and  the  fire-light  dies  ; 
And  you  stand  here  again,  with  your  exquisite  hair, 

Quite  right  not  to  compromise  himself  on  color. 

With  your  passionate  lips  and  your  pleading  eyes. 


It  was  here  that  you  sat — if  I  stretch  out  my  hand 
I  can  almost  believe  that  I  touch  you  again  ; 

Like  the  hunger-mad  sailor  who  springs  for  the  land 
That  he  sees  in  his  madness — but  springs  for  in  vain. 

Expressive,  this  ! 


Do  mad  people  know  they  are  mad — do  you  think  ? 

And  do  the  dead  know  they  are  dead  ? — tell  me  this : 
I  care  not !  for  I  should  be  willing  to  sink 

Into  madness  or  death  'neath  the  spell  of  your  kiss. 

I  wonder well,  never  mind,  I  think  I'll  let  this  verse  go  as  it  is. 


A  MEMORY.  17 

You're  here  once  again — leaning  back  in  this  chair, 
And  I  am  content  to  crouch  here  at  your  knee  ; 

In  the  flesh  you  are  distant — but  what  do  I  care 

That  your  body  is  there,  since  your  soul  is  with  me. 

A  most  convenient  lover — would  that  there  were  more  like  unto  him  ! 


I  hold  you  still  closer — your  breath  on  my  cheek 
Drives  the  blood  through  my  veins  like  a  torrent  of  flame, 

Whilst  /dare  not  breathe.     If  my  soul  could  but  speak, 
The  Echoes  Eternal  would  answer  your  name. 

Again  very  cleverly  uncompromittal  !  A  very  cautious  bard.  A  swain 
once  shouted  my  name  at  an  echo,  and  it  answered  nothing  but 
"Jolly"  and  '"Folly." 


And  now  ?     It  is  morning — you're  still  in  my  grasp, 
As  I  shut  close  my  door  ;  and  I  put  out  my  light, 

And  I  lie  here.     Alone  ?     Do  you  think  I  unclasp 

My  arms  from  your  neck  ? — do  I  bid  you  "  Good-night  ? " 

Ah,  no  ! 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — If  all  bards  had  the  imagination,  and  resources  within  themselves  for  self- 
delusion,  that  this  one  had,  nous  autres  feimnes  would  lead  a  much  pleasanter  and  male  exist 
ence.  The  one  dreadful  danger  of  the  above  is  that  its  luridity  and  sultriness,  and  yet  perfect 
contentment,  tempt  one  to  "make  an  experience,"  saying,  "That's  all  very  well,  but  if—  etc., 
etc." 

2 


YOUR   BIRTHDAY. 


NOTE. — A  patent  title  ;  like  all  the  finest  patents,  valuable  on  account  of  its  supreme  simplicity 
— a  title  that  covers  a  multitude  of  sins.  This  poem,  however,  is  designed  for  sending  when  the 
"affaire"  is  in  full  swing,  and  has  a  taste  of  spurious  eternity  ;  very  pleasant,  even  when  one 
has  "been  there  before,"  so  to  speak. 

I. 

YOUR  birthday  !    To  think  you  were  living 

For  years  before  now  :  it  is  queer, 
For  I — to  my  friends — have  been  giving 

The  date  of  my  birth  as  this  year ; 

An  antique  sentiment,  but  always  pleasant.     The  only  man  who  ever 


said  it  truthfully  was  Adam. 

And  yet  I  am  older  than  you  ! 

ISt/fp   xn-tirsj     rnnr^rninof  Arlam. 


Vide  supra,  concerning  Adam. 

My  theory's  right,  and  it's  pleasant  ; 

Put  by  that  old  bogey,  the  Past  : 
We  only  are  made  for  the  Present, 

To  live  while  each  new  love  can  last. 

Verse  warranted  to  kill  in  the  earlier  stages,  when  one   is  afraid   of 
being  bored. 

We're  not  a  year  old,  dear,  we  two  ! 


II. 

We  were  born,  when  your  soft  hand  in  mine,  dear, 

Was  clasped  on  that  glorious  day  ; 
When  we  vowed  that  our  lives  must  combine,  dear, 

Whatever  the  world  might  say — 

[And  what  is  the  world  when  you  woo  ?  ] 

Deadly  irresponsibility  apparently,  but  quite  harmless  in  the  majority 
of  cases. 


YOUR   BIRTHDAY.  19 

We  shall  live  while  our  hearts  beat  together, 

A  summer  of  flow'ry  delight ; 
And  what  need  we  care  for  the  weather, 

When  all  in  our  hearts  is  so  bright  ? 

Our  sunshine  is  there,  sweet,  \r\you! 

Very  previsional ;  leaves  independence  of  action  in  reserving  the  right 
to  say,  some-day,  "  You  put  the  light  out." 


III. 

If  the  life  we  are  only  beginning, 

With  the  love  that  has  caused  it,  should  fail  ; 
There  are  lovers  more  worthy  the  winning, 

So  why  should  my  darling  bewail  ? 

Irresponsible  humility  ;    very  reassuring  when  one  isn't  quite  sure  of 
one's  self. 

The  Present  is  sweet  and  is  true  ! 
Away  with  the  Future  !    Its  pages 

May  turn  by  themselves  :  you  and  I 
By  kisses  alone  mark  the  ages — 
Too  happy  to  think  or  to  die. 

We're  not  a  year  old,  dear,  we  two  ! 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — A  master-piece  of  preliminary  poetry.  Can  only  be  written,  however, 
before  you  have  had  "scenes."  Resembles,  in  many  respects,  the  full  blaze  of  a  theatre-chan 
delier,  which  outshines  the  tiny,  everlasting  flame  that  lights  all  the  others  when  the  gas  is  turned 
on,  but  goes  on  burning  when  la  grande  jlainme  is  dead. 


YOUR   BIRTHDAY. 


NOTE. — A  great  rarity,  and  therefore  presented  almost  without  comment.     A  genuine  poem, 
which  means  what  it  says— the  kind  of  verses  one  believes  in,  if  one  wants  to. 


ANOTHER  year  begun  !     It  seems 
So  strange  to  think  that  you  and  I 

Must  be  together  but  in  dreams, 
Until  the  months  have  wearied  by. 


We  have  some  mem'ries  that  are  sweet 
And  in  my  dreams  I  see  again 

Those  loving  eyes,  those  lips  I  meet 
In  kisses  that  are  almost  pain. 


For — in  them — all  my  heart  goes  out 
To  meet  the  heart  that  beats  for  me. 

Oh,  darling  !  I  begin  to  doubt 
If  I  can  bear  my  misery. 


I  want  you!  All  the  world  is  cold, 
And  at  your  heart  I  fain  would  rest ; 

My  cares  are  hung'ring  to  be  told  ; 
My  head,  to  pillow  on  your  breast. 


YOUR  BIRTHDAY.  21 

Was  there  a  time — it  scarce  can  be — 

When  you  and  I  had  never  met  ; 
Had  never  let  the  minutes  flee, 

And  found  it  glory  to  forget. 


Your  birthday  !     Let  the  years  go  past — 
Our  love,  my  sweet,  is  young  and  strong 

And  when  we  meet  to  break  our  fast, 
Our  feast  of  kisses  shall  be  long. 

That  shall  your  birthday  be  !     This  year 
We  will  expunge  with  all  disdain  : 

When  next  I  kiss  away  your  tear, 
Then,  darling,  we  will  live  again. 


AFTER-THOUGHT.— He  meant  it. 


TO   MAHMOURE   ON   HER   BIRTHDAY, 


NOTE. — This  was  written  by  a  bard  who  was  also  an  Oriental  and  who  called  me  Mahmour^ 
because  he  said  that  I  reminded  him  of  the  Eastern  hquris  pf  his  dreams.  I  never  complained 
much,  though  I  always  had  an  idea  that  the  said  young  ladies  were  not  altogether  proper  per 
sons  to  talk  about — cotnme  si  rien  n'etait ! 

MY  DEAR  MAHMOURE"  : 

What  day  has  more  worth 
Than  this  of  all  others,  the  day  of  your  birth  ? 

An  awkward  thing  to  say  to  many  women  if  they  are  likely  to  compare 
notes,  which  ihey  generally  are. 

Ah !  would  that  in  language  both  witty  and  terse 
'  I  could  honour  th'occasion  in  apposite  verse. 


How  strangely  propitious  the  skies  must  have  been, 
At  the  moment  you  made  your  debut  on  this  scene — 
On  that  day  when  each  'osophy,  'mancy,  and  'ology 
"Took  aback  seat,"  giving  place  to  Astrology. 

For  surely  your  charms  must  be  mainly  dependant 
On  Planets  that  happened  to  be  "in  ascendant," 
When  most  of  them  said,  "We  regret  that  between  us 
We  ne'er  can  produce  such  perfection  as  Venus  : 
For  none  of  us  can  give  our  children  such  graces, 
Such  movements,  such  manners,  such  figures,  such  faces  ; 

"  Que  nous  eussions  le  temps  de  corriger  nos  eprcuvcs" — OLD  STORY, 

Tho'  the  world  may  admire  our  work  when  'tis  done, 
'Tis  the  children  of  Venus  who  have  'all  the  fun.'  " 

He  is  doubtless  right — after  all,  what  is  mere  astronomical  correctness 
to  a  bard  in  full  swing  of  bard-ment  ? 


TO  MAHMOUR&  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY.  23 

True,  /was  not  there,  so  I  cannot  remember 

What  stars  "  ruled  "  the  sky  'twixt  July  and  September  ; 

Good  !     August  is  a  difficult  word  to  find  a  rhyme  to. 

But  surely  that  sky  must  have  been  wondrous  bright, 
With  planets  propitious  that  day — or  that  night. 


How  do  I  know  ?     Kindly  pause  to  reflect 

That  I've  e'er  been  a  student  of  "  cause  and  effect ;" 

This  is  enough  to  make  Dugald  Stewart  turn  in  his  grave,  and  turn 
Herbert  Spencer's  hair  white,  were  it  not  that  he  has  hardly  any 
and  what  he  has  is  already  white  ! 

And  the  happiest  hours  I've  known — this  is  true — '• 
Have  been  spent  by  the  side,  dear  Mahmoure,  of  you. 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — I  wonder  if  this  is  a  patent-adaptable  one.  It  sounds  like  it.  There  is 
a  dangerous  impersonality  about  it,  which  is  not  conducive  to  implicit  confidence  in  its  "  unique 
ness."  • 


ON  THE  SUN-BLACKENED  PROOF  OF  A 
PHOTO,  FOUND  IN  A  NOVEL  LENT  ME 
BY  DOLLY. 


NOTE. — Nothing  like  a  photo  to  inspire  verse — one  can  take  one's  time  over  it.  If  one  sits 
and  gazes  at  a  thing  long  enough,  one  becomes  fascinated — psychological  fact,  not  claimed  as 
original.  A  proof  obliterated  by  exposure  to  the  hsht  is  treasure-trove  to  an  adorer — the 
"flotsam,  jetsam,  and  walend  "  of  love  ;  though  he  knows  it  is  one's  own,  it  makes  a  great  oppor 
tunity  for  a.sc£ne  eie  jalousie. 


You  lent  me  a  favourite  book,  Dolly, 

Yestre'en,  when  you  bade  me  "Good-night !  " 

Ere  you  lend  one  a  book,  you  should  look,  Dolly, 
To  see  that  that  book  is  "  all  right." 

This  is  the  one  valuable  point  contained  in  this  poem.     Experto  crede, 
as  the  Latin  grammar  says. 

You  hadn't  touched  this  for  an  age,  Dolly — 

For  five  years  at  least,  perhaps  more — 
And  turning  a  page — to  my  rage — Dolly, 

A  photo  dropped  out  on  the  floor ! 
And  I  sat  and  I  glared  at  that  thing,  Dolly, 

And  thought,  "  Whose  the  deuce  can  it  be  ?  " 

So  do  I.     I  haven' tan  idea. 

When  I  show  you  that  thing,  will  it  bring,  Dolly, 
Recollections  that  are  not  of  me  ? 

Probably. 

I  "snorted,"  in  picking  it  up,  Dolly 

['Twas  red,  and  I  felt  like  a  bull]  ; 
But  I  frankly  confess  that  my  cup,  Dolly, 

Of  mortification  was  full, 


ON  THE  PROOF  OF  A  PHOTO.  25 

And  I  wished  that  I'd  let  it  lie  there,  Dolly  ; 

'Twas  not  a  sensation  of  fun, 
When  I  found  nothing  there,  foul  or  fair,  Dolly — 

'Twas  a  proof  that  had  been  in  the  sun  ! 

How  wondrous  are  the  works  of  Providence  ! 

Perhaps  it  bore  your  pretty  face,  Dolly, 
Or  that  of  Lord  A or  young  B ? 

Perhaps. 

Would  that  I  could  efface  ev'ry  trace,  Dolly, 

Of  that  image,  that  wasn't  of  me  ; 
But  the  sun  had  completed  his  task,  Dolly — 

There  wasn't  a  line  to  be  seen. 

Vide  su^ra,  concerning  Providence. 

I  only  can  ask,  "  'Neath  this  mask,  Dolly, 
What  face — years  ago — might  have  been  ?" 

I  should  like  to  imagine  'twas  yours,  Dolly; 
But  ah  !  I  can  hardly  believe 

That  of  photo  of  yours — you  have  scores,  Dolly, 
A  proof  in  your  "  pet  book  "  you'd  leave. 

The  author  was  a  person  of  keen  perceptive  faculties. 

There  isn't  much  doubt  in  my  mind,  Dolly, 

That  here  was  the  face  of  some  swain 
To  whom  you  were  kind — which  you'll  find,  Dolly, 

Not  hard  to  call  up  once  again. 

This  is  an  error. 

And  you'll  not  hold  this  knowledge  aloof,  Dolly, 

When  I  ask  when  this  love  you  forsook  ; 
Had  you  fled  from  his  roof,  when  this  proof,  Dolly, 

You  kept  and  preserved  in  his  book  ? 

Haven't  the  slightest  idea.     I  fancy  he  hadn't  a  roof! 


Dolly's  Answer. 
Lord  bless  you !    'twas  a  photograph   of   me — no  doubt  a 

fright— 
Of  which  I  only  had  the  proof,  and  left  it  in  the  light ; 


26  "MES  AMOURS." 

I  sat  for  it,  no  doubt,  one  day,  entirely  forgetting 
That  "  All  pictures  must  be  paid  for  [horrid  rule]  at  time  of 
setting." 

[So  the  finished  photos  never  came  home,  and  I  stuck  that 
in  there  as  a  book-marker.      That's  all '/] 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — The  answer,  though  ungrammatical  and  prevaricatory,  is  the  only  one  pos 
sible  under  the  circumstances.  I  expect  the  author  didn't  care  much  one  way  or  the  other,  but 
merely  thanked  the  "proof"  for  a  grand  opportunity  to  sling  ink  at  me. 


A   PHOTOGRAPH. 


NOTE. — Another  photo-poem.  There  is  no  doubt  Daguerre  has  a  great  deal  to  answer  for 
in  this  matter  of  amateur  effusions  apropos  of  photographs.  This  is  another  of  the  patent- 
adaptable  form  of  poem — may  be  sent  to  any  one  and  at  any  time.  Specially  recommended  for 
young  or  disappointed  bards. 

WHY  do  you  mock  me,  dear,  with  this — 

The  face  I  ne'er  may  see  again, 
The  lips  I  ne'er  again  may  kiss — 

Why  do  you  send  me  so  much  pain  ? 


I  sit  and  watch  the  sweet  lips  part  ; 
I  almost  see  them  smile  for  me  : 

A  pretty  thought,  and  very  acceptable — saves  one  a  deal  of  personal 
trouble. 

But  in  the  picture  there's  no  heart — 
I  doubt  if  there's  a  heart  in  thee. 

A  common  reproach,  psychologically  insulting,  and  pathologically  in 
correct. 


The  little  foot  peeps  underneath 

That  frock  I've  seen  my  darling  wear — 

The  author  had  evidently  been  reading  Sir  Thomas  Suckling: 
"  Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat 
Like  little  mice  peeped  in  and  out,"  etc. 

All,  Sweet,  these  memories  are  death  ; 
Your  loss  is  more  than  I  can  bear  ! 


Come  back  to  me,  and  be  mine  own, 

This  sounds  familiar. 

And  all  the  world  shall  count  as  naught  ; 


28.  "MES  AMOURS." 

Within  my  heart  you  reign  alone, 
The  queen  of  me  in  every  thought. 

The  two ."  telling  "  lines  of  the  poem. 


Come  back  to  me  !  I  cry  in  vain  ; 

Come  back  to  me  !  in  vain  I  pray  : 
Your  photograph,  in  dumb  disdain, 

Reminds  me  you  are  far  away. 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — An   incontrovertible  poem,   though  obviously  a  mixture  of  truism    and 
paradox.     Strange  that  men  can  be  so  inconsistent  as  to  live  after  writing  such  verses  as  these. 


LET   IT   BE   SOON. 


NOTE. — For  a  brief  hour  I  was  very  proud  of  this;  for  it  was  sent  me  by  a  very  celebrated 
dramatist  and  song-writer,  with  an  introductory  note  connecting  it  with  a  visit  he  paid  me  on 
the  banks  of  the  Thames.  I  subsequently  found  that  he  had  sent  it  to  every  lady  in  the  party, 
and,  worse  still,  had  published  it  as  a  song.  It  was  then  that  I  began  to  doubt  the  sex  which  has 
foolishly  been  called  the  stronger. 


LET  it  be  soon  !     Life  was  not  made  to  long 

For  far-off  hours  in  dim  futurity. 
Thy  presence  soothes  me  like  some  distant  song. 

Oh  !  where  my  head  has  rested,  let  it  lie. 

Pretty,  and  calculated  to  advance  matters  with  a  rush.  This  seems  to 
assume  that  the  author  is  an  dernier  bien  ;  and  when  one  expost 
ulates  he  can  shelter  himself  behind  poetic  license — in  more  senses 
than  one — and  the  fevered  imagination  of  the  bard. 

Hope  is  the  morning,  Love  the  afternoon. 

Let  it  be  soon  ! 


Let  it  be  soon  !     The  treasured  daylight  dies, 
And  changes  sadly  to  the  chill  of  night  ; 

But  summer  reigns  forever  in  thine  eyes, 
And  at  thy  touch  grief  stealeth  out  of  sight. 

A  potent  argument,  and  warranted  to  kill  if  not   too  freely  diffused. 
This  was  too  freely  diffused. 

After  these  years  of  longing,  let  Love  swoon. 

Let  it  be  soon  ! 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — An  ideal  poem  for  "general"  use.  Should  be  copied  in  manifold,  and 
carried  continually  for  distribution  at  critical  intervals  ;  but  should  be  distributed  to  people  who 
don't  know  one  another,  as  it  is  the  kind  of  poem  that  women  always  show  one  another — in  con 
fidence. 


FROM   MY    FLY-LEAVES. 


NOTE. — A  well-known  author  of  my  acquaintance  has  been  in  the  habit  of  sending  me  his 
books  as  they  come  out,  with  little  verses  dedicatory  scribbled  on  their  fly-leaves.  I  have  singled 
out  these  two  as  being  the  most  complimentary  and  pretty,  and  the  answer  to  the  first  as  being 
clever  though  rude. 


FROM  THE   FLY-LEAF  OF  A  BOOK  THAT  I  "  INTERRUPTED  "  BY 
MAKING  HIS  ACQUAINTANCE. 

THE  first  part  is  dull — because  then  I  knew  not 
The  genius  of  life  that  you  hold  in  each  look  ; 

The  last  part  is  duller — to  know  you  I'd  got, 

And,  knowing  you,  how  could  I  think  of  my  book  ? 


[I  lent  the  book  to  a  juvenile  bard  who  cherished  the  superstition  that 
he  had  adored  me,  but  that  I  was  false  and  faithless — idiosyncra- 
cies,  both  of  them.  On  seeing  the  above,  he  dipped  his  pen  in  gall 
and  wrote  the  following.] 


OH  !  why  should  the  thoughts  of  the  false  little  Doll 
Interfere  with  the  course  of  constructing  a  vol.  ? 
Hawk  preys  not  on  hawk  ;  brother  bothers  not  brother  ; 
Why  should  one  piece  of  fiction  embarrass  another  ? 

AFTER-THOUGHT.—  Lovely  ! 


FROM  MY  FLY-LEASES.  31 


FROM  THE  FLY-LEAF  OF  A  SUBSEQUENT  WORK,  AT  THE  "  CON 
STRUCTION  "  OF  WHICH  I  ASSISTED. 


THOUGH  critics  may  deride,  dear, 
Though  few  the  readers  be  ; 

I  wrote  it  by  your  side,  dear, 
And  that's  enough  for  me. 


ANOTHER. 

THE  critics  say  the  world's  not  so, 
And  call  me  cynical  and  snarling  ; 

But  then,  one  fact  they  did  not  know- 
I  wrote  it  ere  I  knew  thee,  Darling. 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — The  great  charm  of  snap-verses  of  this  kind  lies  in  the  fact  that  the 
bard  has  to  come  to  the  point  at  once,  so  cannot  shelter  himself  behind  the  periphrastic  ambig- 
uousness  which  is,  at  once,  the  privilege  and  the  protection  of  bards. 


A   QUESTION. 


NOTE.— Another  title  recommended  as  patent,  on  account  of  its  adaptability  ;  it  seems  to 
be  based  on  the  advice  of  the  philosophic  luminary  who  said,  "  If  you  want  to  inculcate  a  fact 
of  which  you  are  yourself  not  quite  certain,  state  it  boldly,  but  interrogatively." 


D Y,  has  it  ever  crossed  your  thoughts 

Leave  blank  for  name,  and  alter  to  suit  metre. 

That  we  were  made  for  one  another  ? 

It  certainly  had  not  struck  me  in  that  light. 

Had  something  else  been  otherwise, 

Deliciously  vague,  this. 

We  might  have  lived  and  loved  together  ? 

Possibly  ?     The  "premises  "  are  too  vague  to  allow  of  definite  reply. 

"Tis  said  that  in  this  world  below 
Each  soul  would  find  a  sister-half, 
If  only  they  knew  where  to  meet — 

Surely,  there  are  lots  of  places  ? 


But  better  never  meet  at  all 

Than  thus  to  meet — and  meeting,  part  ! 

Parfaitement ! 

Can  it  be  true  that  you  will  never,  dear, 

Unbind  that  glossy  hair  for  me  ? 

Can  it  be  true  I  ne'er  again  shall  press 

Impassioned  kisses  on  your  lips  ? 

Or  lay  my  cheek  upon  that  polished  arm  ? 

"  Cheek  "  was  a  dangerous  word  to  have  used. 

Can  this  be  true,  whilst  knowing  what  I  know  ? 

Classic  uncertainty  again. 


A  QUESTION.  33 

I  dream  of  you  and  watch  your  portrait's  eyes, 
In  foolish  hope  that  they  will  turn  on  me, 
In  silly  craving  they  might  smile  on  me. 


The  convict  feels  a  lighter  chain, 

Who  hopes  for  future  liberty  : 

But  I — my  Darling,  give  me  hope  ! 

The  awful  commonplace  of  life 

Must  separate,  for  weeks,  for  months,  for  years 

But  tell,  "  Sweet  Sister-half,"  that  I  have  found 

When  next  we  meet,  will  you  say,  "  Never-more? 

I  don't  even  know  now,  as  we  never  met  again. 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — The  tumultuous  "  Walt-Whitman-esqueness  "  of  this  "measured  prose" 
is  not  without  its  charm,  but  this,  as  a  whole,  is  deprecatory  with  the  wrong  sort  of  deprecation. 
Humility  should  always  be  arrogant  (pardon  the  paradox  ! },  otherwise  it  is  apt  to  miss  fire.  If 
I  remember  rightly,  this  missed  fire. 


A   DREAM-WISH. 


NOTE. — And  it  really  deserves  to  be  fulfilled,  for  it  is  the  least  exigeant  poem  I  have 
ever  had  hurled  at  me.  One  feels  inclined  to  say,  like  the  lady  in  the  French  play,  whose  lover 
announces  his  intention  of  going  into  the  business  of  thinking  only  of  her,  to  whom  she  replies, 
cordially,  "  P"aitei-donc  !  Faites-donc  !  " 

I. 

WHEN  sleep  rests  on  my  eyelids,  and  the  train 

Of  fairy  fancies  from  the  realm  of  dreams 

Comes  with  its  wand  to  stir  my  drowsy  brain, 

And  wake  my  senses  to  the  golden  gleams 

Of  joyous  scenes  that  make  my  sleep  more  sweet, 
My  happiness  is  made  the  more  complete 
If  in  my  dreams  I  see  thy  face  again. 

How  easy  it  is  to  give  pleasure  to  one's  fellow-creatures  if  one  would 
only  take  the  trouble  ! 


II. 

I'd  never  wake  if  thou  wouldst  but  abide 
In  dreamland  evermore,  and  lovingly 

Wouldst  nestle  close  and  trusting  at  my  side, 
And  give  thyself  with  all  thy  heart  to  me. 

For,  waking,  I  might  find  thee  cold  and  stern- 

Probabiy  ! 

A  goddess,  on  whose  altar  I  might  burn 
My  heart  to  ashes,  and  gain  naught  beside. 

Ditto. 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — This  also  is  rather  the  lay  of  a  lazy  lover.     I  told  him  so,  and  he  sent  me 
a  hundred  verses,  which,  on  the  death  of  two  compositors,  I  have  finally  decided  not  to  print. 


THE    IMAGINING   OF  A   FEVERED   IMAGINA 
TION. 


NOTE.— The  author  of  the  following  lines  might  just  possiby  have  saved  himself  by  their  title, 
but  he  didrft  risk  it,  i.e.,  I  never  knew  who  wrote  them,  though  I  have  compared  the  writing  with 
hundreds  of  others  ;  and  I  give  them  as  the  most  piano  specimens  of  dozens  like  unto  them — 
only  worse — that  I  have  received  from  unknown  bards  with  equally  convenient  (for  me  and  them) 
imaginations. 


praise  the  shape  of  thy  form  so  fair, 

An  inferior  line  ;  but  he  hadn't  yet  settled  down  to  his  stride,  I  suppose. 

Sweet  Mistress,  mine  ; 
Thy  coral  lips,  thine  auburn  hair, 

And  eyes  that  shine  ! 
But  these  charms  thro'  a  dull,  cold  veil  they  see, 

By  order  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain. 

And  that  veil  is  lifted  alone  for  me — 

When  the  rich  brown  mass  of  thy  glossy  hair 

[Its  waves  unbound], 
Sheds  o'er  thy  beauty  a  mantle  rare, 

Floating  around, 
Striving  to  hide,  with  envious  skill, 

Thy  bosom  soft  and  glowing, 
White  as  the  snow,  without  its  chill, 

What  an  imagination  ! 

While  far  beneath  the  wild  veins  thrill, 
Like  Hecla's  lava  flowing. 

/put  in  "Hecla  ;  "  he  said  "  Hector"  but  I  don't  think  there's  a  volcano 
— or  a  moth — of  that  name. 

Tis  mine  to  divide  each  glossy  tress, 
From  that  soft  and  yielding  form  ; 


36  "MES  AMOURS." 

Tis  mine  alone  to  hear  thy  sigh 

At  passion's  height, 
When  flames,,  as  if  electric,  fly, 
Convulse  the  frame,  illume  the  eye. 

Edisonian,  to  say  the  least  of  it.     N.B. — This  verse  has  been  a  good 
deal  Bowdlerized. 

Their  hearts,  their  very  souls,  they'd  give 
For  this  short  hour  with  thee  : 

In  this  short  hour  with  thee  I  live 
A  whole  Eternity. 

In  imagination— as  per  title — bien  entendu  ! 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — And  this  is  the  kind  of  trash  that  is  limetred"  out  (excuse  me  !)  to 
any  popular  actress  who  appears — well — on  the  stage  instead  of  in  a  box  at  the  opera, — by 
the  yard. 


THE   ANSWER. 


NOTE. — This  was  sent  me  by  a  boy,  who  had,  in  a  moment  of  agony,  confessed  to  me  some 
terrible  passages  in  his  early  life.  As  I  really  cared  a  little  for  him,  I  was  able  to  comfort  him 
somewhat,  and  next  day  sent  him  the  verses  on  page  6.  This  was  his  answer,  written  with 
the  messenger-boy  looking  over  his  shoulder. 


TELL  me,  dear  Love,  have  you  ever  reflected 

On  how  you  have  brightened  this  hard  life  of  mine  ? 

Tell  me,  my  Sweet,  if  you  ever  expected 

To  make  an  existence  so  wretched,  divine  ? 

Very  complimentary,  even  if  he  didn't  mean  it. 


Can  you  conceive  how  I  lived  ere  I  met  you  ? 

Yes,  perfectly. 

Can  you  imagine  a  life  without  love  ? 

Well, — I  don't  know. 

Dear,  if  you  can,  you  know  well  why  I've  set  you 
All  women  who  walk  upon  earth,  far  above. 

A  very  easy  remark  to  make. 


May  you  ne'er  dream  of  the  sickening  sorrow 
With  which  all  my  loveless  "  to-days  "  had  been  rife, 
Till  a  wretched  "  to-day  "  turned  a  glorious  "  to-morrow," 
As  your  voice  and  your  touch  stirred  my  dead  soul  to  life. 

And  this  you  have  done  for  me,  Dolly.     Ah,  never 
Forget  that  'twas  you  broke  the  links  of  my  chain, 

What  a  responsibility  !  and  how  dangerous  !     A  woman  never  breaks 
a  man's  chain  but  she  makes  her  own. 


402G3G 


38  "MES  AMOURS." 

And  that  all  lies  with  you :  shall  I  live  thus  forever  ? 
Or  must  I  go  back  to  the  old  life  again  ? 

As  if  you'd  go  if  I  sent  you. 


Come  always  to  me  in  your  thoughts,  and  remember 
That  here  there  beats  always  a  heart  that  is  true  ; 

Oh  !  man,  man  !     "  Always,"  indeed  ! 

And  bid  memory  chaunt  of  that  month  of  September, 
When  first  you  saw  me,  and  at  last  I  met  you. 

Humility  very  delicately  expressed.  A  most  deadly  line,  implying,  as 
it  does,  a  life  passed  in  endless  struggles  to  this  end.  I  can  almost 
hear  him  sigh  as  he  says  "  at  last." 


And,  Sweetheart,  if  ever  your  courage  should  waver, 
When  I've  gone  away  and  the  years  onward  roll, 
Be  strong  for  my  sake  ;  for  if  you  are  o'ertaken, 
I'm  bound  to  fall  too,  since  I've  left  you  my  Soul  ! 

This  is  the  sort  of  verse  most  women  would  give  their  souls  to  believe. 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — Really  very  pretty,  and  a  very  dangerous  poem  to  receive.  It  appeals 
to  the  maternal  instinct,  which,  even  if  unexpressed,  is  so  strong  with  "us."  At  the  same  time 
there  is  in  the  above  an  apparent  readiness  to  make  the  best  of  "anything"  that  is  calculated 
to  find  a  weak  spot  in  the  barricade  against  the  natural  enemy,  if  such  weak  spot  exist. 


A   LEGEND   OF   KING   WILLIAM   STREET. 
MAY,    1879. 

NOTE. — I  hesitated  about  including  these  verses,  as  they  are  purely  local ;  but  their  clever 
ness  and  "  Gilbertian"  audacity  of  rhyme  decide  me  to  print  them.  It  was  at  the  Folly,  in  King 
William  Street,  Strand,  that  I  played  La  Perichole,  and  first  met  the  author  of  these  lines. 

THERE  came  from  Pall-Mall  a  poor,  desolate  diner-out ; 
His  clothes  they  were  faultless,  his  manners  superb  ; 
From  all  the  "Spring  Captains"  you'd  ne'er  pick  a  finer  out. 

"  Spring  Captains ''  are  the  young  officers  of  the  "  Household  troops," 
who  promenade  Pall-Mall  during  the  season. 

But  sadly  this  ev'ning  he  steps  o'er  the  kerb  : 
For  William  Street  blazes  no  longer  for  Dolly, 

With  sweet  music  wedded  to  words  of  Torn  Bowles  ; 

T.  B..  editor  of  Vanity  Fair,  who  wrote  the  English  libretto  of  "  La 
Perichole." 

And  dark  seem  the  portals  that  lead  to  the  "  Folly," 
Where  now  maunders  only  old  Sheridan  Knowles. 

"  La  Perichole,"  was  followed  by  a  revival  of  one  of  Sheridan  Knowles' 
plays. 


"Ah  !  "  cries  the  fond  youth,  "while  I  lounged  at  the  'Gaiety,' 
And  gazed  at  the  rhythmical  legs  of  Kate  Vaughan, 

The  queen  of  English  step-dancers  of  this  quarter-century. 

And  watched  country  curates  contend  with  the  laity 
In  clapping  their  Connie — so  nice,  though  a  raw'un — 

The  worship  of  "  the  child  "  Connie  Gilchrist  was  then  at  its  height. 

I  simply  forgot  that  in  all  there's  finality  ; 

That  even  Sweet  Farren's  best  antics  may  pall  ; 

The  "  star  "  of  the  "  Gaiety  "  burlesque  company. 

That  only  in  Dolly  lives  constant  vitality, 

To  quicken  your  pulse  as  you  sit  in  your  stall. 


40  "MES  AMOURS." 

And  now  that  vile  Shepperton's  swallowed  my  Perichole, 

I  had  taken  a  cottage  to  rest  in  at  Shepperton-on-Thames. 

And  '  Women,  dear  Women,'  no  longer  is  heard, 
The  feeling  that  happiness  all  is  at  Jericho'll 

Make  me  do  something  or  other  absurd. 
Oh,  death  !  I  beseech,  come  take  this  wretch  away,  oh  ! 

I'll  shoot  or  I'll  hang  me,  now  Dolly  has  flown, 
Or  else  I  will  hie  me  to  hunt  Ketchewayo, 

The  South  African  imbroglio  was  then  going  on. 

Or  sit  through  '  The  Lady  of  Lyons' — alone  ! 
No  !  Into  the  river!  And  then  she'll  be  sure  to  see 

How  I  still  mourn  for  those  ev'nings  so  sweet ; 
For  old  Father  Thames,  with  his  usual  courtesy, 

Will  bear  my  damp  corpse  to  her  miniature  feet  !  " 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — A  chapter  of  contemporary  dramatic  history,  this.  The  experimental 
bard,  if  he  knew  the  "  consequences  "  of  this  poem,  would  take  a  lesson  and  write  this  kind  of 
thing,  instead  of  indulging  in  "  the  premeditated  verbiage  of  irresponsible  amorousness." 


LONELY,   BUT   NOT   ALONE. 


NOTE. — This  poem  celebrates  in  verse  (though  retrospectively)  the  most  charming  epoch  of  an 
affaire — i.e.,  the  moment  at  which  one  has  made  up  one's  mind  that  one  is  quite  content  and 
wants  nothing  more  ;  the  point  at  which  nothing  jars  upon  one,  and  the  word  "contentment"  has 
not  become,  as  it  usually  does,  later  on,  a  synonym  for  "carelessness." 


THE  silvery  Thames  was  flowing  past, 

There  at  our  feet  it  hurried  by, 
And  in  delight  too  dear  to  last 

Prophecy  after  the  event  is  a  privilege  of  bards. 

We  sat  together — She  and  I  ; 
And  if  no  words  between  us  went, 
It  was  that  we  were  quite  content. 

Vide  La  Fontaine,  concerning  the  ostrich. 

But  one  short  month  since  fate,  or  chance, 
To  where  she  was  my  steps  had  ta'en, 

Since  I  had  dared  to  break  a  lance 

With  "someone  else  :" — had  dared  disdain, 

And  found,  ere  Doll  an  hour  I  knew, 

A  tender  woman,  sweet  and  true. 

Oh  !  happy  days  that  followed  then, 

When  by  the  river-side  we  sat, 
And  talked  of  future  glories,  when 

The  laurel  wreath  should  spoil  my  hat  ; 

He  was  a  rising  journalist  at  the  time  ;  he  has  since  risen. 

And  in  that  sky  of  Hope,  serene 
My  gentle  Dolly  reigned  as  Queen. 


42  "MES  AMOURS." 

All  now  is  gone  ;  and  I  am  here 
Alone,  three  thousand  miles  away, 

To  chronicle  the  social  leer, 
To  watch  the  social  idiots  play, 

He  regulated  the  columns  of  a  celebrated  "  society  paper." 

While  Yankee  dandies  draw  the  cork 
To  Dolly's  health  in  far  New  York. 

His  choicest  anathema  was  always  reserved  for  "  the  land  of  the  brave, 
etc." 


Shall  I  despair,  shall  I  let  pass, 
The  hopes  on  which  alone  I  live  ? 

Consent  to  write  me  down  an  ass, 
No  longer  for  that  laurel  strive. 

Ah,  no!  I  never  can  forget  ; 

With  her  I  will  be  happy  yet. 

This  sounds  familiar. 


I  see  her  smile  across  the  sea, 
I  hear  her  voice  within  my  soul ; 

If  this  sort  of  thing,  apparently  easy  to  bards,  were  to  come  into  gen 
eral  use,  the  telephone  and  phonograph  would  be  badly  "  out  of  it" 

Her  clinging  kisses  come  to  rne, 

Though  leagues  of  sea  between  us  roll ; 
She  sits  beside  me  while  I  write, 
And  in  my  dreams  we'll  meet  to-night. 

Excellent !  and  most  convenient. 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — Strange— is  it  not  ? — that  just  as  death  produces  inflation  (physically  and 
biographically),  when  one  has  parted  from  a  bard,  he  never  celebrates  anything  but  the  roses  of 
life.  Possibly  the  rose,  being  dry,  is  easily  preserved,  whilst  the  thorns,  being  fortunately  brit 
tle,  break  off  or  get  absorbed  by  the  blotting-paper  of  e very-day  existence. 


RETROSPECTIVE. 


NOTE. — This,  again,  is  a  grand  adaptable  title,  like  "  After  ;  "  and  I  strongly  suspect  that 
it  is  a  patent-adaptable  poem,  suitable  for  sending  round  promiscuously  to  ladies  who  go  to  the 
theatre  with,  or  are  escorted  home  from  balls  by,  bards.  The  rhythm,  which  may  be  described 
as  "broken-tooth-comb  metre,"  is  strongly  recommended  to  bards  whose  feelings  are  too  strong 
for  their  scansion.  Tumultuously  pretty,  nevertheless. 


THERE 

At  the  door  she  stood, 
So  passing  fair 
In  the  halo  of  her  rich  brown  hair  ; 

This  line  must  alter  to  suit  color  of  hair. 

What  was  it 
In  her  steadfast  eyes 

Good  universal  description  of  eyes. 

That  reached  the  tear-well  in  rny  heart, 

Bade  the  drops  rise, 
And  made  it  sad  to  part  ? 

Goodness  knows  ! 


She  did  not  love  ; 
She  would  not  say  she  cared  : 

What  was  the  use  after  the  preceding  line  ? 

And  yet 

Her  look  confessed  regret, 
And  had  I  dared 

Osez  toujours  ! 

To  seize  her  in  my  arms 
And  kiss  her  brow, 


44  "MES  AMOURS." 

To  break  the  spell  her  charms 

Had  thrown  around  me  ; 

And  tell  her  how 
I  loved  her — how  she  found  me 

Sick  of  life  and  daily  fret 

Till  we  had  met  ; 

I  have  heard  this,  passim  !    They  all  say  this  and  we  all  like  it,  and 
believe  it. 

Had  I  kissed  her  soul  away, — 

Till  she  were  fain 

To  say 
Whether  her  heart  were  touched  or  nay, 

Though  it  were  pain 

To  part,  it  were  not  vain 

To  hope  that  we  might  meet  again. 

Seems  almost  a  pity  he  did  not  dare.    If  I  remember  rightly,  he  didn't. 
One  can't  rely  on  the  after-utterances  of  bards  as  statements  of  fact. 


I  see  her  there, 
Like  some  fair  statue  stand, 
With  streaming  hair, 

This  is  unlikely. 

And  shoulders  bare, 

This  is  not. 

A  living  grace  from  some  "  antique." 


And  I  can  only  kiss  her  hand, 

And  once  more 
Look  into  her  eyes  ; 

She  will  not  speak  ; 
And  now  I  close, 
With  sighs, 
The  door  : 

They  must  have  been  powerful  sighs. 


RETROSPECTIVE.  45 

And  through  the  night 
I  watch  her  light 

Above, 
And  mark 
Her  shadow  as  it  comes  and  goes. 


Alas  !  the  light  is  out, 

And  all  is  dark  : 
Will  she  doubt 
My  love  ? 

What  else  can  she   do,  if  the  above  is  a  reliable   tabulation  of  the 
"  premises  "  ? 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — One  feels  inclined  to  quote  Soyer  or  Francatelli,  and  say,  in  conclusion  : 
"  Flavour  to  taste,  add  coloring-matter  and  ornament,  and  serve  hot  on  clean  paper."  A 
charming  composition,  however ;  and  as  the  writer  is  the  author  of  several  charming  libretti,  I 
recommend  it  to  him  for  reproduction  as  a  recitative.  That  is,  if  he  hasn't  already  scattered  it 
around  too  freely. 


LES   ACCROCHE-COEURS. 


NOTE. — Written  when  it  was  the  fashion  to  wear  little  curls  at  the  outlying  districts  of  one's 
hair,  which  we  called  accroche-coeurs. 


WE  neither  said  a  word,  and  yet 

Heart  spoke  to  heart,  as  side  by  side 

This  garrulity  of  bards'  hearts  is  most  convenient. 

We  stood  that  day — together  : 
No  strangers,  for  we  often  met ; 

But  still  there  seemed  a  gulf  as  wide 

As  May  and  winter  weather. 

He  wants  a  word  here. 

I  heard  her  breathing  come  and  go  : 

It  can't  have  been  me — I'm  not  asthmatic. 

My  own  heart  beat  so  very  fast, 

I  thought  it  must  be  breaking. 
Whether  she  cared  for  me  or  no 
I  could  not  tell,  but  hoped  at  last 

Love  in  her  soul  was  waking. 

Her  hand  grew  warmer,  clasping  mine, 

Not    even   a   bard    ought    to   tell  his  mistress   that  her    hands   are 
"clammy." 

And  when  our  glances  met,  her  eyes, 
I  fancy,  sparkled  brighter  ; 
But  Love  as  yet  had  shown  no  sign  : 
I  felt  a  tender,  vague  "  surprise," 

And  clasped  her  hand  yet  tighter. 


LES  ACCROCHE-CCEURS.  47 

The  perfume  of  her  scented  hair, 
The  contact  of  her  silken  dress, 

Thrilled  all  my  veins  to  bursting. 

Qa-yest! 

She  would  not  speak — I  did  not  dare  ; 
For  one  love-draught,  in  sore  distress, 

My  anguished  soul  was  thirsting. 

And  thus  we  stood,  each  other  near, 
Without  a  word  ;  our  eyes  were  bright, 

Than  eyes  of  love  far  blinder  ; 

I  thought  this  idea  was  exploded  in  these  days,  when,  as  Tiffany  says, 
"  The  price  is  legibly  marked  on  every  article." 

And  as  I  turned  in  dull,  cold  fear, 
Her  profile  came  against  the  light — 

The  window  was  behind  her. 

And  there,  beneath  her  looped-up  hair, 
The  little  curls  peeped  out  and  smiled — 
And  yet  no  word  was  spoken. 

I  could  not  help  myself,  but  there 

I  clasped  her  round,  my  darling  Child  ; 

Enfiii  ! 

And  feeling  now  nor  doubt  nor  fear, 
I  kissed  her  neck,  and  little  ear  ; 

And  as  I  pressed  her  finger-tips, 

She  turned  and  gave  me  up  her  lips — 

How  shocking  ! 

And  so  the  ice  was  broken. 

AFTER-THOUGHT. — This  poem  should  have  been  inspired  by  a  return  from  a  ball,  when  He  is 
just  saying  good-by.  If  I  were  writing  this  scene  for  a  play,  I  should  describe  it  thus  :  A 
little  low  cottage  in  a  quaint  garden.  Though  the  month  is  July,  at  this  early  hour  the  air  is 
sweet  and  fresh.  The  garden-door,  swinging  to,  shuts  out  the  London  street  and  life.  Once 
through  the  porch  and  open  door,  they  stand  in  the  hall,  in  that  deadly  quiet  'twixt  dying  night 

and  living  day,  and  take  the  first  step  toward  making  each  other  happy  or miserable — most 

probably  the  latter.     I  wonder  if  the  real  inspiration  was  anything  like  this  ? 


REVERIE. 


NOTE. — I  found  this  on  my  desk  one  night  on  my  return  from  a  theatre.  It  was  evidently 
scribbled  between  naps  with  which  He  beguiled  the  time  till  my  return.  He  will  doubtless  be 
horrified  to  see  such  a  hasty  effort  in  print.  Moral  :  Put  not  thy  trust  in  Dolls. 


WITH  all  the  chill  of  friendship  in  mine  eyes, 

Yes,  it  is  always  there. 

With  all  the  fire  of  longing  in  my  soul, 

Most  satisfactorily  hidden. 

I  lie  alone — for  you  are  gone — and  watch 
The  cinders,  busy  in  their  idleness, 
Writhe  into  wreaths  and  stumble  into  shapes, 
To  fall  once  more  and  leave  no  trace  behind 
Of  the  weird  fancies  of  the  dying  fire  : 

Charming  !    I've  used  this  myself  somewhere  else. 

Its  last  confession — as  it  were — before 
It  crumbles  into  dry,  decadent  dust ! 

Who  was  the  Sage  who,  in  rough  days  of  old, 

God  knows.     I  don't  know  anything. 

When  flight  of  time  was  marked  alone  by  lust 
Of  life  and  near  approach  of  chillsome  death, 
Said  that,  of  all  things  dangerous  and  bad, 
The  worst  was  when  a  woman  thought  alone  ? 

I  hear  that  this  was  Juvenal.     Probably  !  he  was  nothing  if  he  wasn't 
rude  to  ladies. 

He  spoke  in  wanton  ignorance  that  man, 
Left  solitary  with  his  own  drear  thoughts, 

Is  worse  a  thousand-fold  ;  for  he  blasphemes 
The  world  and  all  tilings,  dreaming  of  his  past. 

My  own  pocket  Manfred. 


R&VERIE.  49 

To  lie  and  listen  to  the  dying  voice 
Of  dying  day,  in  the  great  city's  din 
Hushed  incoherent  'neath  the  folds  of  nio:ht : 

O  ' 

To  lie,  amid  the  cushions  and  the  silks 
Of  your  divan,  and  wonder  whether  it 
Would  speak  of  things  more  strange,  could  it  but  speak, 

Curiosity. 

Than  all  these  memories,  which  start  from  naught, 
Thrown  on  the  screen  of  thought  in  bold  relief, 
Cast  by  the  magic-lantern  of  the  Soul. 

Wild  thoughts  of  Days  that  had  not  any  Night, 

How  sleepy  I  must  have  been  !     This  would  mislead  people  as  to  my 
mode  of  existence. 

Of  tingling  joy  in  Life  that  knew  not  Death, 
Of  hours  of  Pleasure  where  no  thought  of  Pain 
Crept  in  to  make  the  pleasure  dear  to  us  ; 
Of  captive  hours,  chained  in  the  bond  of  eyes 
That  shone  on  us  alone,  and  bade  us  drown 
Of  such  conceits  as  "  Time  "  and  "  Space  "  the  thoughts, 
When  we  lay  drugged  in  lethargy  of  love, 
And  fancied  our  unconsciousness  was  peace  ! 


To  lie,  contrasting  with  our  happy  hours, 

The  wretched  ones  when  those  that  we  have  loved 

Seemed  cold,  or  disappointment  chilled  the  fire 

Too  many  chills,  my  friend — you'll  get  influenza. 

Of  longing  in  our  hearts  and  bade  despair, 
Distrust,  and  disenchantment  take  its  place  ; 
Of  moments  when  our  hearts  have  beaten  high 
With  wild  expectancy  of  joys  supreme  ; 
Of  how  those  moments  faded  into  dull, 
Cold  misery,  when  Nothingness  ensued. 
4 


50  "MES  AMOURS." 

Ah,  well !  why  mock  the  solitary  hours 

With  thoughts  like  these  ?     Rise  up,  contemplate 

The  Present,  with  its  dazzling  brilliancy 

That  shines  into  our  eyes  and  bids  us  cease 

To  think  at  all  of  Future  things  or  Past ! 

Ah,  there  !  Omar  Whayyam  ! 

The  "  now  "  is  good  ;  take  heed  lest  you,  by  calm, 
Dispassionate  reflection,  'neath  the  rose, 

See  the  sharp  thorn  of  Disillusionment, 

Very  sound  philosophy — always  avoid  the  thorns. 

As  through  a  murky  lens  th'astronomer 
Sees  spots  upon  the  sun  ! 

\The  folio-wing  note  was  finned  to  the  J>oem^\ 

DEAREST  DOLLY:  Don't  leave  me  alone  with  myself  in  a  place  where  you  have  been  !  I  get 
upon  my  nerves  and  think  of  things  that  never  have  been,  till  my  mind  wanders  away  and  leaves 
my  body  mad.  Yours, 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — This  boy  was  possessed  by  the  original  idea  that  he  was  not,  never  could 
be,  jealous.     Oh,  Vanity,  thy  name  is  not  always  woman  ! 


AFTER. 


NOTE. — This  should  have  been  called  "An  Interlude."  I  think  it  is  in  the  nature  of  the  skele 
ton-key — adaptable  to  the  dead-locks  of  flirtation.  Poem  suitable  for  sending  to  a  loved  one 
before  going  out  of  town,  where  one  may  find  someone  one  likes  better.  Its  great  advantage  is 
that  if  the  above  does  not  take  place,  one  can  triumphantly  point  to  the  last  verse,  and,  working 
the  "  misunderstanding  "  racket,  start  fresh. 


I  FELT,  long  ago,  that  my  day-dream  was  past ; 

But  I  know  'twould  have  softened  the  sting  of  my  pain 
Had  you  told  me  yourself  ih&t  I'd  wakened  at  last, 

Had  I  heard  your  sweet  voice  only  once,  once  again. 

Introductory  verse  easily  explained,  if  necessary,  by  referring  to  some 
casual  tiff  on  some  trivial  subject. 


'Twas  your  cold,  cruel  silence  that  taught  me  despair, 
When  no  word  echoed  mine  as  I  whispered  your  name  ; 

Your  answer,  unspoken,  was  cruel  to  bear, 

And  I  left  you  in  silence — ah !  was  I  to  blame  ? 

Clever,  because  completely  unanswerable.  Nothing  to  lay  hold  of,  but 
effect  all  the  same,  viz.,  '•  he  left  me  in  silence" — explanation  might 
have  been  too  definitive. 


And  now  it's  all  over  :  I  know  'tis  too  late, 

And  I  know  ere  we  meet  that  'twill  be  but  to  part ; 

But  grant  me  one  sign,  for  this  pain  'twill  abate 

If  it  come  from  your  lips,  from  your  hand,  from  your  heart. 

A  thoroughly  Jesuitical  verse,  suggestive  of  the  gentleman  who  said 
"  I  go,"  and  went  not.     Note  the  artful  italics  in  the  fourth  line. 


52  "MES  AMOURS." 

If  only  you'll  tell  me  that  thus  you  will  be, 
Ever  silent  perhaps,  yet  in  silence  the  same  ; 

If  my  soul  turns  in  mute  adoration  to  Thee, 
If  I  love  you  in  silence — ah  !  am  I  to  blame  ? 

After  writing  this — go  !     Don't  wait  to  be  told.     The  prevision  of  the 
second  line  saves  a  world  of  trouble. 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — A  most  useful  poem,  and  adaptable  to  nearly  every  stage  of  a  toquade.  It 
also  has  the  supreme  advantage  that  it  may  be  sent  even  after  the  lapse  of  years,  and  in  expla 
nation  of  innumerable  infidelities. 


EROTIC   CHESTNUTS. 


NOTE. — This  was  written  me  just  as  this  volume  was  going  to  press,  by  a  friend  who  looked 
over  some  of  the  MSS.,  and  to  whom  I  remarked  on  the  sameness  of  their  expressions.  He  was 
touched  at  a  sore  point  evidently,  for  he  sat  down  and  wrote  me  the  following,  under  the  above 
title. 

You  tell  me  all  men  say  the  same 

Mendacious  things  when  they  adore  ! 

They  do. 

If  so,  you  ought  to  lay  the  blame 

On  all  these  men  who've  loved  before  : 

There'd  be  plenty  to  go  round. 

For  surely  you've  no  right  to  scold 

Me  when  I  say  that  "  Only  you 
Have  understood  me  " — if  it's  old, 

A  male  version  of  ihefenzme  incompxise  fiction. 

It  need  not  therefore  be  untrue  ! 

Not  necessarily. 

And  when  I  say  that  "  2  unbend 
Alone  for  you,  and  show  myself, 

This  is  almost— eh  ?     What  ? 

You  need  not  cease  to  be  my  friend 
Because  'twas  said  by  some  poor  elf 

It  was. 

Who  doubtless  also  said  what  I 

Say  now  to  you,  that  "Any  day 
I'd  gladly  lay  me  down  and  die 

If  you  should  find  me  in  your  way  !  " 

Vide  AFTER-THOUGHT  on  p.  28. 

And  possibly  e'en  you've  denied 

The  truth  of  statements  such  as  this  : 

I  have. 


54  "MES  AMOURS." 

I'm  only  happy  by  your  side  !  " 

This  would  be  all  right  if  one  never  saw  them  with  anyone  else. 

And  " Loving  you  is  simply  bliss  !  " 

A  veritable  marron  glact. 

"Tis  possible  these  have  been  said 
By  men  flirtatious,  bad,  and  bold, 

They  have. 

But,  oh  !  I  trust  you'll  not  be  led 

To  doubt  them  now — because  they're  old  ! 


Envoy. 

Now  listen  to  me,  and  henceforward  be  wise  : 
"  1 never  have  loved  any  woman  but  you  " 

Was  remarked  by  Pere  Adam  in  Paradise, 

Since  when — as  a  statement — it's  been  untrue  ! 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — "  None  but  the  brave  deserve  the  fair,"  and  this  man  deserves  anything 
even  immortalization  as  one  of  "  Mes  Amours,"  though  a  frivolous  and  irreverent  one. 


MY   OWN. 


A   CONSOLATION. 


NOTE. — Oh  !  why,  when  my  inmost  soul  yearns  for  the  harmony  of  graceful,  flowing  rhythm, 
will  my  pen  only  jingle  the  monotone  of  rhyme  ?  My  spirit  prays  for  Pegasus,  and  is  confronted 
by  the  Rhyming  dictionary :  Heart,  part,  start,  dart,  tart,  smart ;  love,  dove,  glove  ;  stove,  move, 
prove  ;  and  so  on.  My  rhymes  remind  me  of  the  maddening  musician  mercilessly  miscalled, 
who  thinks,  because  with  the  forefinger  of  the  right  hand  he  can  pick  out  a  tune  in  the  treble,  "The 
claims  of  concomitant  bass  !  Have  nothing  to  do  with  the  case,  Tra-la  !  "  and  so  continues  till,  to 
the  educated  ear,  agony  reaches  the  end  of  the  gamut  in  consecutive  fifths  and  octaves,  and 
desperation  supervenes.  Thus,  for  instance  : — 


DEATH  and  I  walk  side  by  side, 
He  the  Bridegroom,  I  the  bride  ; 
He  whom  I've  so  oft  defied 
Will  no  longer  be  denied  ; 
Whilst  between  us,  yawning  wide, 
Lies  a  Gulf — a  rushing  tide 
Of  a  Fear  I  dare  not  hide  : 
Dismal  Fate,  to  be  allied 
To  a  Spectre  who  must  guide 
Evermore  my  every  Stride. 

\Change  of  rhyme, — thank  heaven  /] 

Many  in  Health  still  share  my  Fate  : 
Soul  bound  to  Soul,  in  Bonds  of  Hate  ; 
Life  linked  to  Life,  not  Mate  to  Mate  ; 
Their  Chaunt  eternal,  "  Too  late  !  Too  late  !  " 

[Once  more  ; — thank  you  /] 


58  "MES  AMOURS." 

I'd  sooner  my  grisly  Bridegroom  keep, 

Than  change  with  lives  like  this,  all  Strife  ; 

For  I,  too,  have  known  what  it  is  to  weep, 

In  my  Soul,  at  the  sound  of  the  words  "  My  wife." 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — Why  should  an  initial  error  trammel  one  within  the  sordid  boundaries  of 
similarity  of  metre?  Bards,  let  us  not  be  slaves  !  Let  us,  like  the  ostrich,  stop  our  ears  to  criti 
cism,  and  do  as  seemeth,  not  best,  but  easiest  to  us  !  Also  N.B.:— Without  the  Capitals  this 
Poem  would  be  nowhere  ! 


A  WORD  OF  INTERPOLATED  APOLOGY. 

THE  following  two  poems  (pardon — rhymes  ! )  were  written 
after  reading  a  volume  entitled  "Passionate  Poems."  I  had 
fallen  in  love,  and  with  me  the  divine  disease  of  Eros  lasts,  as 
a  rule — let  us  be  accurate — about  six  hours  and  three-quar 
ters  ;  and  being,  as  a  natural  consequence,  full  of  fervid  frenzy, 
it  occurred  to  me  that  the  sacred  fire  had  entered  into  my 
breast  (I  believe  that  is  the  point  it  usually  attacks).  I  was 
deliberate,  as  a  poet  should  be,  with  my  preparations.  I 
thought  that  if  I  could  mix  up  the  words  "  Love,"  "  Hell," 
"  Desire,"  "Hate,"  "Soul,"  "God,"  "Love-drouth,"  and 
"  Limbs" — all  with  capital  letters  \vide  preceding  specimen] — 
together  with  my  own  yearning  agony,  I,  too,  might  make 
happy  homes  desolate  and  uncomfortable.  In  the  throes  of 
this  particular  passion,  which  lasted  close  on  seven  hours,  I 
"  threw  off  " — I  believe  that  is  the  expression  sacred  to  dogs 
and  doggerel — the  following,  and  sent  them  per  messenger- 
boy  to  the  Object  in  the  early  morning,  hoping  he  had  slept 
well,  and  that  after  his  night's  rest  he  would  be  strong  enough 
to  bear  the  shock.  I  am  not  altogether  "  satisfied  with  their 
manner,"  but  "  there's  a  deal  of  pleasure  "  in  stringing  them 
together. 


MY   QUESTION. 


NOTE. — I  forgot  to  say  that  this  Object  was  the  Oriental  who  always  called  me  Mahmoure 
Vide  p.  22. 

I  WONDER  if  when  I  am  dead  and  cold, 

My  Spirit  can  visit  this  Earth  again  ? 
If  so,  I  will  come  when  the  night  is  old, 

And  tap,  and  tap,  at  your  window-pane. 


I  wonder  if  you  will  consider  it  odd 
That  Mahmoure's  spirit  should  wander 

So  far  from  its  home  in  the  land  of  God, 
Which  is  yonder,  far  distant  yonder  ? 

I  wonder  if  you  will  expect  me,  dear, 

In  the  soft  gray  chill  of  that  early  morn  ; 

I  wonder  if  you  will  reject  me,  dear, 

And  turn  me  away  for  some  love  new-born  ? 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — The  Object  told  me  this  was  not  up  to  my  usual  standard  of  idiotcy.  but 
that  I  had  cribbed  it  from  "  Violet  Fane."  I  hadn't.  I  swear,  but  I  felt  so  flattered  that  I  wrote 
a  lot  more.  If  I  have  cribbed  unconsciously,  I  trust  that  the  beautiful  poetess  will  forgive  me, 
and  feel  gratified  at  receiving  my  drop  of  flattery  to  swell  the  ocean  of  adulation  in  which  she 
floats  in  her  everlasting  youth. 


HIS   CONFESSOR. 


NOTE. — This  was  written  to  re-assure  a.  boy  who  had  confessed  to  me  some  of  the  crimes  of 
his  fevered  youth,  and  then  was  stricken  with  fear  lest  he  should  have  hurt  my  feelings  and 
driven  me  away. 

Now,  she  said,  let  me  confess  you  : 

Pour  from  your  heart  all  its  woe  ; 
Speak,  and  let  no  fear  possess  you — 

Half  of  your  sorrow  I  know. 

Always  a  safe  thing  to  say,  and  very  encouraging  to  a  juvenile  adorer. 

Come,  place  your  head  on  my  breast,  love, 

Here,  take  my  hand  in  your  own  ; 
Tell  me  you  feel  more  at  rest,  love — 

Tell  me  your  sorrow  has  flown. 

The  conceit  of  it  is  lovely,  even  to  myself ! 

Silent  ?     Why,  what  do  you  fear,  love, 
That  your  story  might  drive  me  away  ? 

Not  God  himself — do  you  hear,  love  ? — 
Could  take  me,  if  you  said  "  Stay  !  " 

This  is  a  good  breezy  statement,  calculated  to  kill  on  sight.  If  you  an 
nounce  the  perpetration  of  an  impossibility,  let  it  be  a  good  one,  or 
the  psychological  effect  is  nowhere. 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — The  statement  contained  in  the  NOTE  is  not  la  veriti  vraie,  but  la 
verite  imaginaire.  The  rhymes  were  written  after  reading  a  romance  called,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  "  The  Suicide  of  Sylvester  Gray,"  which  impressed  me  a  little  at  the  time.  Still,  there 
was  a  lurking  intention  to  convey  an  idea  of  the  illimitable  love  which  I  might  be  capable  of 
under  proper  treatment.  Vide  note  on  manufacture  of  chains,  p.  37. 


A   FRAGMENT. 


NOTE. — This  title  has  always  struck  me  as  ingenious,  like  "  From  the  Choctavv  "  or  "A 
Thought  at  Seringapatam."  It  absolutely  covers  the  ground,  and  is  an  excuse  for  a  doggerel 
of  which  you  don't  know  the  meaning  yourself,  and  can  safely  defy  other  people  to  discern.  It 
also  has  the  inestimable  advantage  of  allowing  the  bard  to  leave  off  at  any  moment  when  the  dif 
ficulty  of  the  subject  becomes  a  burden.  Therefore,  the  Blessings  of  a  Bard  (for  what  they  are 
worth)  on  the  inventor  of  "A  Fragment !  " 


Do  I  wish  we'd  never  met  ? 
Do  I  wish  I  could  forget  ? 
As  I  ask,  mine  eyes  grow  wet 
With  a  dew  of  sweet  regret  ; 
For  your  eyes  are  wondrous  fine, 
And  they  looked  straight  into  mine, 
With  agaze  that  was — divine 

[And  deceptive]. 
And  they  said,  "I  love  you  well, 
Better  far  than  I  can  tell, 
For  your  love  my  soul  I'd  sell ! 

[You're  so  receptive.] 
For  you  listen  to  my  woes 
As  I  sit  here,  at  your  toes, 
Clad  in  such  bevvild'ring  hose, 
Till  I  think  of  autre-choses  ; 
Then  I  sink  upon  my  knees 
By  your  side,  by  slow  degrees, 
And  lay  my  head  here — if  you  please  ? 

[I'm  not  expective.] 


A  FRAGMENT.  63 

I  will  treasure  every  sigh 

That  you  breathe  when  I  am  nigh, 

And  you  know  for  them  I'd  die.'' 

[I'm  so  collective.] 
Still,  the  question  will  arise 
[Very  much  to  my  surprise, 
For  I'm  quoted,  oh  !  so  wise 
And  so  clever  for  my  size], 
Do  I  wish  we'd  never  met  ? 
Do  I  wish  I  could  forget  ? 
And  my  soul  replies,  "  Not  yet  ; 

Till  we  part 

Let  us  yet  enjoy  the  thrill 
Of  this  pleasure — madd'ning  still, 
Let  me  give  you  all  you  will 

Of  my  heart. 

Let  that  heart  to  yours  be  near, 
Let  me  stifle  all  my  fear 
Of  that  future  time  so  drear, 
When  you've  left  me  lonely,  dear. 
Don't  remind  me  of  the  debt 
I  must  pay,  while  you  beget 
Other  loves — but  oh  !  not  yet, 

Not  yet  awhile ! 

For  my  heart  with  hunger  cries, 
Craves  the  food  your  hand  denies — 

Would  you  like  a  few  more  lies, 

By  the  mile  ?  " 


AFTER-THOUGHT. — This  Fragment  was  my  first  offence,  and  was  written  the  day  after  my 
"  seven-hour  passion"  had  announced  his  intention  of  striking  camp  and  going  "  farther  on." 
(I  don't  remember  if  he  carried  out  his  intention — I'll  ask  him.)  Really  that  extra  fifteen  min 
utes  has  much  to  answer  for.  Oh,  sympathy  !  !  !  Oh,  Plato  !  !  !  you've  more  to  answer  for 
than  Eros. 


THE   TRAGEDY. 


NOTE. — I  started  out  on  this  poem  firmly  believing  myself  to  be  befriended  by  the  Tragic 
Muse.  Alas !  I  was  mistaken.  I  presume  that  I  had  some  idea  in  my  head  when  I  started 
this  lucubration — I  will  not  do  myself  the  injustice  of  believing  otherwise — but  that  idea  inge 
niously  evaded  me  at  an  early  stage  of  the  game.  However,  guessing,  as  a  holiday  pastime,  is 
salubrious  ;  maybe  some  good  friend  will  guess  for  me. 


HE  came  to  my  room  in  the  dead  of  night, 

And  all  around  was  so  still  ; 
My  heart  palpitated  in  ghastly  plight — 

I  knew. he  would  have  his  will. 

I  wondered  at  first  was  I  certain  quite, 

Did  I  dream,  or  was  I  ill, 
When  a  full,  soft  ray  of  the  moon's  pale  light 

Streamed  over  my  window-sill  ? 

His  terrible  eyes  had  a  look  so  bright 

That  I  feigned  to  lie  asleep. 
He  murmured,  rather  than  spoke,  "  I  am  right, 

I  am  right  !  my  vow  I'll  keep. 
So  you  thought  you  could  hide  by  taking  flight 

Whilst  I  was  out  on  the  deep, 
And  you  doubtless  jeered  at  my  wretched  plight ; 

But  now  it's  your  turn  to  weep. 
So  it  is  for  the  man  who  betrayed  me — 

As  he  sowed,  so  shall  he  reap  ; 
Very  nearly  his  debt  is  repaid  me, 

As  close  to  your  bed  I  creep." 


THE   TRAGEDY.  65 

He  spoke  very  low,  yet  the  words  meant  Death 

As  plainly  as  tho'  'twere  outcried  ; 
And  nearer  he  crept,  till  I  felt  his  breath 

On  my  cheek,  then  all  hope  died. 


For  I  knew  I  had  naught  to  say 
That  could  purchase  my  Fate's  delay  ; 
There  was  nothing  to  do  but  pray 
That  salvation  might  come  my  way. 


Should  I  beg  him  his  hand  to  stay  ? 
No  !  I  knew  he  would  say  me  nay. 
So  in  horror  I  trembling  lay 
'Neath  those  eyes  of  glittering  gray. 


He  raised  his  hand,  and  the  terrible  steel 
Shone  clear  in  the  moon's  pale  beam  ; 

The  plunge  of  the  blade  I  began  to  feel, 
Then  I  uttered  a  piercing  scream. 

Again,  again  I  shrieked,  till  waking, 
I  found  a  picture  I  held  was  breaking, 
And  pieces  of  glass 
Were  scattered,  alas ! 
All  over  the  bed, 
From  the  foot  to  the  head, 
And  my  fingers  were  red 
With  the  gore  that  was  shed 
In  that  terrible  fight, 
In  the  dead  of  the  night, 
With  a  ghost  of  my  own  home-making. 
5 


66  "MES  AMOURS." 


Moral. 

Gentle  reader,  take  warning  by  me,  and  beware  ! 
Never  take  to  your  bed  any  dangerous  toys, 
Such  as  pictures  (for  instance)  of  good-looking  boys  ; 
Or,  at  least,  if  you  must,  take  the  glass  from  the  frame, 
Or  you  run  a  fair  risk  of  just  doing  the  same 
As  I  did — and  then  have  a  bad  nightmare. 
For,  if  you  refrain  from  removing  the  glass, 
And  lie  on  the  picture,  you'll  find  it  disas- 
Trous  to  nerves, — and  have  a  bad  nightmare. 

Better  still,  if  you'd  flee  from  this  mare  of  the  night, 

I'd  suggest  circumspection  qua  supper  ; 
Then  read  something  light, 
Effervescing  and  bright, 

Such  as  Browning,  or  Spencer,  or  Tupper. 


AFTER-THOUGHT.— In  confidence  I  will  admit  that,  notwithstanding  pretended  humility 
in  my  inmost  heart,  I  believed  I  had  at  last  found  the  material  for  a  great  and  serious  epic.  It 
is  needless  to  say  how  soon  I  became  conscious  of  my  fatal  infatuation.  Luckily,  when  I 
reached  the  part  where  the  gentleman  should  have  done  something  tragic — and  I  could  not 
think  what  to  make  him  do,  though  I  kept  his  hand  up  till  he  must  have  been  quite  exhausted 
— I  suddenly  remembered  my  Ingoldsby  (bless  him  !)  and  rescued  myself  a  la.  Fragment. 

P.  S. — Nothing  but  the  despairing  application  of  my  publisher  for  more  "  copy  "  could 
have  induced  me  to  inflict  this  on  my  reader. 


TO   UNACTED   AUTHORS. 

NOVEMBER  28,   1887. 

Having  been  fortunate  enough  to  have  sold  my  play 
"  Fashion,"  to  the  lessees  of  Wallack's  Theatre,  it  may  be 
that  a  few  remarks  on  the  subject  of  launching  a  play  will 
not  be  considered  superfluous  by  those  interested  in  dramatic 
authorship.  If  I  am  looked  upon  as  lucky  in  having  secured 
such  a  production  for  my  first  effort,  let  it  not  be  supposed 
that  the  advantage  was  obtained  without  the  expenditure  of 
vast  ingenuity. 

Four  years  of  weary  disappointment  formed  the  prelimi 
nary  stage.  Finally,  broken  down  in  health,  nay,  on  the  verge 
of  the  grave,  I  at  last  induced  our  much-respected  manager, 

Mr.  C ,  to  read  my  play.  In  the  preceding  two  years  he 

had  got  through  two  acts — an  act  a  year.  During  the  third 
year  he  read  the  third  act,  expressed  much  admiration,  and 
desired  me  to  send  the  remainder  at  once.  I  did,  but  Drama- 
tophobia  had  set  in,  and  no  power  could  induce  the  poor 
gentleman  to  approach  acts  four  and  five.  It  was  then,  and 
not  till  then,  that  I  brought  to  bear  that  merciless  treatment 
which  should  never  be  resorted  to  but  in  extreme  cases. 
There  are  a  variety  of  means  employed  to  obtain  a  hearing.  A 
few  hints  from  my  own  experience  will  not,  I  trust,  be  con 
sidered — to  use  the  language  of  the  XXXIX.  articles — super 
erogatory.  My  remarks  will  be  brief,  if  my  words  are  long. 

I  do  not  propose  to  dissertate  upon  the  many  ^successful 
means,  but  will  dispose  of  them  all  by  saying,  "The  club  is  no 
longer  used."  I  place  my  method  before  the  reader  in  the 


68  "MES  AMOURS." 

hope  it  may  prove  of  service  to  those  struggling  genii  whose 
efforts  would  doubtless  conduce  to  fame  but  for  the  effete 
and  turgid-minded  manager.  What  England  is  to  the  op 
pressed  Irish,  what  America  is  to  that  gentle,  ill-used  product 
of  an  alien  soil — the  Anarchist,  so  is  the  manager  to  the  un 
acted  dramatist ! 

My  method,  as  shown  in  the  annexed  lines — with  the  accom 
panying  newspaper-paragraph — is  infallible,  for  the  reason 
that,  as  in  certain  physical  diseases,  heroic  treatment  is  neces 
sary  ;  so,  I  take  it,  the  mental  condition  of  the  manager  must  be 
dealt  with — no  gentle  measures,  such  as  leaving  MSS.  at  the 
door.  The  manager  must  be  attacked  when  he  is  weak,  help 
less,  alone.  No  quarter  should  be  given  to  this  despotic  ty 
rant,  who  so  frequently  insists  on  managing  his  own  business, 
and  purchasing  only  that  which  to  him  seems  best,  to  the  det 
riment,  if  not  the  suppression,  of  the  rising  dramatist. 

This  desire  on  the  part  of  the  manager  to  use  his  own  dis 
cretion  should  be  met  at  the  outset  by  the  most  virulent  oppo 
sition.  It  is  a  base,  sordid,  pernicious  abuse  of  power,  which 
must  not  be  tolerated,  interfering,  as  it  does,  with  the  rights  of 
the  working  author. 

Therefore,  I  say,  engage  not  with  these  vicious  animals — 
managers — in  kindly,  courtly  warfare,  but  strike  boldly!  strike, 
as  I  said  before,  not  with  the  club,  but  with  the  more  deadly, 
insidious  poison,  as  prescribed,  which  has  the  advantage  of 
killing  on  sight  or  obtaining  a  hearing.  What  I  mean  is  that 
after  all  these  years  of  unavailing  effort,  I  sent  him  the  fol 
lowing  amazing  production. 


D.   C. 


NOTE. — The  following  verses  brought  to  a  triumphant  denouement  the  variegated  diplomacy 
of  years.  They  recount  with  the  progressive  detail  of  the  English  "  Blue  book,"  or  "  Congres 
sional  Record"  the  stages  which  led  to  the  dramatic  coup  d'etat  of  last  May.  List,  O  ye  who 
would  bow  before  a  curtain  in  response  to  the  call  for  "  Author."' 


SAID  D to  C ,  my  play  you  see, 

Upon  the  desk  before  you  ; 
Said  C to  D ,  my  misery 

Began  the  day  I  saw  you. 

This,  like  most  statements  of  fact,  was  uncivil,  but  incontrovertible. 

D.  C.  [Da  Capo.] 


Said  D to  C ,  you'll  soon  be  free, 

My  work  no  more  shall  fret  you  ; 
D take  the  woman  !  said  poor  C , 

I  wish  I'd  never  met  you. 

He  also  said  he'd  have  given  a  hundred  dollars  for  me  to  have  taken  it 
to  someone  else. 

D.  C.  [Deuced  Civil.] 


Then  C sat  down,  with  lurid  frown, 

Which  melted  to  a  smile  ; 
And  as  he  read,  resentment  fled 

Before  the  siren's  wile. 

After  this,  I  took  it  away — Ilfaut  se  faire  valoir.     Alas  !  it  returned 
to  him  stronger  by  two  acts. 

D.  C.  [Do  Come  to  it.] 


70  "MES  AMOURS." 

Poor  C (they  say),  in  blank  dismay, 

Took  up  acts  five  and  four ; 
He  said,  I'd  say,  I  hate  this  play, 
But  I  like  it  more  and  more. 

This  was  nice,  if  it  was  only  said  because  I  was  a  "picturesque  ruin,' 
in  the  matter  of  health. 

D.  C.  [Distinctly  Complimentary.] 


Said  C ,  I'm  gay!  I've  read  your  play, 

And  very  good  I  find  it  ; 
The  best  I've  seen  for  years  I  ween, 

And  I  guess  there's  cash  behind  it. 

Historians  tell  us  that  after  this  he  went  to  a  place  called  the  "Hoff 
man  House  "  and  "  stood  things." 

D.  C.   [Dollars  Continually.] 


To  C ,  D cried,  I'm  gratified, 

To  think  you're  pleased,  dear  friend  ; 

And  C replied,  I'm  satisfied 

Your  trouble's  at  an  end. 

This  was  on  the  principle,  one  for  you  and  two  for  me. 

D.  C.  [Don't  Congratulate  yourself.] 


In  this  MS.  there's  great  success, 
Be  patient  as  you've  been  ; 

I  trust  bad  health,  with  all  this  wealth, 
Will  vanish  from  the  scene. 

So  did  I. 

D.  C.  [Dolly  Coincided.] 

AFTER-THOUGHT  [in  doggerel  this  time] . — 

You're  free  you  see,  said  D to  C — 

To  try  before  you  buy  it  ; 


D.   C.  71 


I  will,  said  C ,  if  o'er  the  sea, 

No  English  critics  guy  it. 

A  dying  man  clutches  at  a  straw. 

D.  C.  [Devilish  Cautious.] 


Moral. 

The  weasel  cannot  be  caught  asleep,  says  the  natural  his 
torian,  but  I  once  heard  of  an  animal  of  this  kind  that  kept 
his  eyes  so  wide  open  that  he  got  dust  thrown  into  them. 


TRAGIC    DEATH. 


At  four  o'clock  yesterday,  the  popular  manager,  Mr. 

C ,  was  found  dead  in  his  office.  Assistance  was 

summoned  ;  an  autopsy  was  about  to  be  held,  when  the 
Coroner  discovered  the  above  epic  poem  clasped  in  the 
dead  man's  hand.  On  examination,  the  Coroner  said  no 
further  inquest  was  necessary.  Death  must  have  been 
instantaneous. 

The  jury  added  a  rider  to  their  verdict,  expressing  a 
hope  that  the  Legislature  would  be  shortly  petitioned  to 
take  steps  to  protect  defenceless  managers  and  editors 
from  the  ravages  of  the  rabid  insect — whether  indigenous 
or  imported — known  to  science  as  Scriblerii  incipientes. 


POSTSCRIPT. 


IF  for  a  moment  I  madly  believed 

That  /could  write  verse,  my  mind  is  relieved 

Of  doubt  on  that  score; 

But  of  nonsense  like  this,  if  I  only  had  time, 
And  hadn't  to  bow  to  th'  exigence  of  rhyme, 

I  could  write  volumes  more. 

S.   D., 

Regretfully. 


AU   REVOIR. 

WITHOUT  wishing  to  render  my  apologies  wearisome  by 
repetition,  I  must,  in  justice  to  myself,  make  one  last  effort. 
Those  who  only  know  me  through  the  medium  of  this  little 
book  could  scarcely  help  thinking  me  heartless,  cruel,  and 
unable  to  appreciate  the  sentiment  I  have  been  happy  enough 
to  inspire.  This  is  not  so.  No  girl  has  treasured  her  first 
love-letter  with  greater  tenderness  than  have  I  my  verses. 
They  have  many  a  time  consoled  me  for  some  fancied  slight, 
or  for  one  of  the  many  disappointments  of  my  profession.  I 
am  not  ashamed  to  say  I  have  loved  them  better  than  jewels 
(perhaps  it  is  lucky  for  me  I  did).  Those  who  know  me  will 
understand  that,  in  making  a  joke  of  the  verses  sent  me,  I  do 
so  in  no  spirit  of  raillery,  but  because  I  cannot  help  laughing 
at  the  most  serious  subjects  in  life  ;  and  it  is  because  I  believe 
many  persons  will  sympathize  and  laugh  with  me — at  least, 
I  hope  so — that  I  have  made  this  little  book. 

SELINA  DOLARO. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


Form  L-9 
20m-l,  '42(8519) 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

AT 

LOS  ANGELES 
LIBRARY 


PS 

1545     Dolaro  - 

D29m     ttMes  amours" 

1888 


PS 

1545 
D29m 
1888 


